


The Secret to Happiness: Unofficial and Uncensored

by gayforrest



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Road Trip, F/F, and ridiculously gay chauffeur Laura, ft rich and broody Carmilla
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 20:00:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3741814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayforrest/pseuds/gayforrest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Carmilla can't stand to be in Los Angeles another second and Laura is too infatuated to say no.</p><p>Alternatively: Two ridiculous gays find the stars radical, but find each other even more radical.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 2,776 Miles To Go

**Author's Note:**

> AKA: The chapter in which neither Carmilla nor Laura are able to find words in their vocabulary other than "No" and "Oh."

Being a chauffeur to some rich, broody twenty-something isn’t exactly what you would describe as your dream job. You would more accurately describe it as your oh-god-rent’s-due-next-week job. It could be worse though; you could be the chauffer for some gross, telemarketing forty-something.

(At least your boss definitely isn’t gross)

( _Definitely_ )

Either way, you’re incredibly thankful for this job.

“What’s on the schedule for today?” Ms. Karnstein grumbles from the backseat. Your boss may not be gross, but she sure is grumpy _all of the time_ —no hyperbole detected.

You fumble with the notebook sitting in the passenger’s seat for a moment before finally flipping to today’s schedule. “Well, you have that photoshoot for Elle’s ‘Single and Rich’ issue in about thirty minutes. About an hour after, you should be having lunch with the editor from, uh…” You squint your eyes at the messy writing scrawled out on your notebook.

“Forbes?” She suggests, running a hand through her thick, dark hair.

“Yeah, that’s the one. Then you have dinner with your mom and some of her co-workers.” You continue.

She doesn’t answer, but she slouches in her seat and sighs loudly, which you’ve learned translates directly into _“kill me now_.”

“If you want, I could call to cancel the editor’s lunch? It’s not really necessary anyways; just a formality.” You offer, giving her a soft smile through the rearview window in an attempt to lighten the air.

“No.” She breathes out simply, dropping her head to the window with a soft thud.

You try not to take it personally. You know she doesn’t hate you; just the _idea_ of you. The idea of “needing” someone drive her around all day and supervise her to be sure she does everything she “needs” to do. You can tell she really hates everything about this lifestyle.

You’ve also picked up on the fact that she hates the idea of “needing.”

The rest of your drive through Los Angeles traffic is carried out in silence—not including the typical sound of honking or the screech of breaks being slammed on seeping into the car and mixing in with your Top 40. It’s not uncommon for Ms. Karnstein to be noiseless and brooding, but something’s definitely off today. The silence isn’t comfortable or peaceful like it usually is, but instead, heavy and nagging. You would usually just fill the silence with talk about everything her mother needs her to do, but the tension in the atmosphere reminds you that it's really the last thing she needs. Your eyes flit to your rear-view mirror to look at her, only to be met with clenched-shut eyes.

“Are you alright?” You ask, and her eyes drift open to meet yours slowly.

“I don’t think we pay you to care about me, do we?” She answers coldly.

You nod slowly, moving your gaze back to the road without another word.

(You try so hard not to take it personally.)

You pull into the Elle: Los Angeles parking lot five minutes earlier than your appointment requires you to, and Ms. Karnstein makes no move to get out of the car. You don’t say anything, assuming she’s waiting for the clock to turn exactly 9:00 (something about the fact that being early is “unfashionable,” as she's told you in the past). The two of you sit in silence, the gentle humming of the engine being the only thing to keep you sane.

You’ve always hated silences—you feel as if you’ve had to suffer through enough of them. You remember your father’s silence after your mother had passed; you remember the silence you endured for a solid six months after your car crash; you remember the silence when you confessed your feelings to that stupid girl in tenth grade; you remember too much.

The minutes tick by unbearably slowly, and you’re relieved when the clock strikes 9:00.

Except Ms. Karnstein doesn’t move an inch.

“You, uh, you have your photoshoot right now.” You point out tentatively.

She raises her eyes to stare at you through the rear-view mirror apprehensively, and you’re sure you can _feel_ her mind moving at least a thousand words a minute. You wait patiently as she formulates words.

“I don’t want to go in there.” She whispers slowly, as if she’s speaking to herself more so than she is to you.

“Okay,” You reply, deciding that it would be meaningless to convince her to go inside anyways, “I can go ahead and call your mother and tell her-”

“No.” She interrupts frantically. “Don’t.”

You nod, a horrifying image of what your bank statement will look like once the older and scarier Karnstein fires you. “Do you want me to drive you somewhere else? There’s a Denny’s near here?” You offer.

You hate seeing this side of Ms. Karnstein. You hate to say it, but you miss her stupid sarcasm and witty comments, no matter how insufferable they were. This unsure and timid side she's showing you is more disconcerting than you can handle.

“No.”

“Oh.”

What feels like an eternity of silence passes by.

“Do you want to go to the lunch with the Forbes editor later?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

Two eternities.

“Dinner with your mom?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

Three eternities.

“I’ve never been to New York City.” She whispers, staring down at her hands, which are pressed against her thighs anxiously.

“What?”

“I’ve been to Barbados, Paris, London; never New York City.” She continues, never once looking up to meet your eyes in the rear view mirror. “I’ve always wanted to go.”

“I can call your manager and talk to her about it. I’m sure she’d be happy to buy you a plane ticket, or something. Tons of photo ops there and whatnot. I’m pretty sure Michael Kors is stationed there, you could do some sort of promo with them.” You suggest, feeling desperate for a solution to this situation.

“No, I don’t want that.” She replies, nervously glancing between her hands and you. “What’s on your schedule for today?”

“Oh, you know. Driving you around and all that jazz.” You reply, doing your best to lighten the mood.

“What about tomorrow?”

“Same thing.”

“Okay.”

“Why?”

Four eternities.

“Have you ever been to New York?” She speaks up.

“No. I’ve always wanted to, though.”

Five eternities.

“Let’s go.” She whispers softly, removing her gaze from you to look down at her seat belt.

“Denny’s?” You ask, already shifting the car into reverse to back out of your parking spot.

“No, not… Not quite.” She trails off.

“Where do you want to go? I’m afraid you’ve filled the In-N-Out quota your mother has set for you.” You look behind you as cars pass behind your own in the parking lot, waiting for a pause in the influx to be able to drive out.

“New York City.”

“What?” You shout as a crazed, bewildered look takes over your features, and you can feel your heartbeat in your ears at the sudden panic.

“Shit man, if it was that bad an idea, you could have just said so.” She grumbles, rubbing her temples.

“I’m afraid that’s sort of a big ask.” You laugh nervously, trying to calm yourself down.

“Right, and we only pay you enough for the little asks.” She rolls her eyes at you.

“No, I just… That’s really more of a family sort of thing to do. You know, road tripping across the good ol’ US of A in a Lexus, and I’m sure your mother wouldn't hesitate to pull a George R.R. Martin and put my head on a stick if I took you out of the city limits, you know. Plus, what would I do if you got hurt or something? I could be _sued,_ Ms. Karnstein. I wouldn’t even be able to afford a proper lawyer for the trial, Jesus.” You rush the words out, only stopping when you’ve ran out of breath.

“Nevermind, nevermind. It was a stupid idea anyways.” She shrugs off.

“No, it wasn’t… It wasn’t stupid. It’s just sort of unrealistic. And what is that, like, a sixty-hour drive going straight through America without any sleep or bathroom breaks? To take with your chauffeur, nonetheless. I mean, there’s nothing more I’d love to do than go road tripping across America with you, but-”

“But what? What’s stopping you?” She asks pointedly, leaning forward.

“I…” You start, but you realize that you don’t really have a reason to not do this, except for the fact that her mother may very well destroy you and your stable income.

“Exactly, exactly. How great would it be to leave Los Angeles? To leave behind shitty tap water, way too dark spray tans, and obsessive soccer moms? We could totally do this. Besides, I pay you to drive me around. A couple extra miles shouldn’t make too much of a difference.” She enthuses, and _wow_ you’d be lying if you said you weren’t tempted to take her offer.

“A couple of miles? Try two thousand, Ms. Karnstein.” You argue, waving your arms in the air for emphasis. “It’s just crazy.” You add on, letting out a deep breath.

“What’s wrong with a little crazy, Hollis?”

“How about this,” She continues, a smile growing on her face. “You drop me off at my place, I grab whatever I need, while you go to your place and grab whatever you’re gonna need. You pick me back up, and we’re fucking off to New York City. How about it?”

_Fucking shit._

You stare forward, a million downsides to this plan, a plan with zero detail or preparation, might you add, running through your head. Yet, looking at this grumpy and ill-tempered girl light up like a fucking Christmas tree—or a Menorah, in this case— at the mere prospect of this trip, you go against everything your father has ever taught you and nod hesitantly.

You’re going to fucking New York City.

With a super hot rich girl.

Who has a super scary mother.

What the fuck are you going to do?


	2. 2,408 Miles to Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carmilla's affinity for Denny's almost matches Laura's affinity for Carmilla.

You’ve never seen Carmilla Karnstein as happy as she is in this exact moment.

A huge grin lights up her face as she lugs two suitcases from the steps of her apartment, and throws them into trunk of your car. She grips the strap of her messenger bag tightly, as if it’s the only thing keeping her from floating away. She walks with a sort of masked giddiness, like she’s trying with all of her might to remain calm. She slides into the passenger seat of your car with a certain swagger, her grin having been reduced to a small smile (something that was obviously a conscious effort).

“The front seat, eh?” You observe as she buckles herself in.

“I can’t stay in the backseat the whole trip; I’d miss out on all the good stuff. There’s no way I’m going to let you enjoy The World’s Biggest Ball of Twine without me.” She brushes off.

You nod, letting out a breathy, nervous laugh. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen her from this angle before and _fucking shit, is she ever not hot?_   “You ready, Miss Karnstein?” You ask, shaking the thought from your head.

“Carmilla.” She tells you nonchalantly, not turning her head to meet your eyes.

“What?”

“If we’re about to drive across the United States, you’re gonna call me Carmilla. Fuck that Miss Karnstein bullshit.” She states, nodding to herself.

You stare at her for a moment, fighting the urge to smile as best as you can. “Okay, _Carmilla_. In that case, I’m Laura.”

“I know, cutie.”

This time, you don’t fight your smile.

“Seriously though, any last stops before we start this ridiculous excursion.” You redirect the conversation, drumming your fingers against the wheel. “Anyone you want to visit before we get going?”

“Nope.” She says, popping the ‘p.’

“Did you tell your mother about the trip?”

_Silence._

“Carmilla?”  You speak up, turning fully to look at her. She only hums in response. “Did you tell your mother?”

She turns her head to look at you for a moment before returning her gaze to whatever lies beyond the car windshield. “Yeah.” She answers shortly.

You don’t question her further, choosing instead to just drive as far as you possibly could for as long as you possibly could—and that’s exactly what you do for the next eight hours straight. _Just drive._ There’s a sort of relaxation in being in control of this aspect of your life. You get to choose what route to take, what truck stops to grab 99 cent chips from, what tourist traps to visit, etc. When everything else in your life is one big, “Laura, I’m sorry but—,” you finally get, “Whatever you want, Laura.”

You never realized how free you’d feel outside of LA.

Carmilla isn’t so bad either. She doesn’t talk much, which also directly translates into ‘she doesn’t complain much.’ She spends the majority of the time with her feet kicked up on the dashboard, some book from the 1900s in hand. Every now and then she pulls herself away from her book to ask you what time it is or where you are, but that’s the extent of her company.

You kind of wish she’d talk more; doesn’t talk much seems to also translate directly into ‘you know virtually nothing about her other than what you’ve read in magazine articles.’

Not that you’ve, you know, read a lot of them.

“Do you want to stop up here in Phoenix to grab a bite?” You speak up, turning down the radio volume.

“Sure,” She replies.

“Where do you want to eat?”

“You like Denny’s, right?” She asks, putting her book down.

 You roll your eyes playfully at her. “I swear, you’re more committed to Denny’s than you are to your own career.”

“Hey!” She exclaims defensively, “Denny’s is the shit, okay?” She replies, pointing at you accusingly for emphasis.

“Okay, okay, please don’t kill me. I’m sorry I ever doubted Denny’s.” You laugh out, one hand on the wheel, the other raised in the air as a sign of surrender.

“Damn right you are.” She states, nodding her head and turning her gaze back to the road.

“So Denny’s then?”

“Denny’s.”

///

Denny’s is considerably less glamorous at 7 PM on a Wednesday night than you had previously thought. The diner is quiet and empty, the air filled almost strictly with the sound of clinking mugs and hushed whispers between employees.

Carmilla sits opposite to you with her legs crossed and her right hand wrapped around her iced tea tightly as she glances around the restaurant, both of you enveloped in a painfully awkward silence.

“So…” You breathe out, tapping your fingers against the wooden table.

“So…” She repeats.

“We should play a game or something.” You suggest with a shrug.

“Like what?”

“We could do truth or dare.”

“That stopped being cool in middle school, cupcake.” She tells you, leaning back in her seat in that _unaffected-broody_ way you’ve seen her do before. “Besides, I’m not into dares.”

“We don’t have to put in dares. It could just be a game of, like, truth or truth.” You offer.

“Truth or truth? Sounds kind of lame.” She tells you, picking at her nails.

“I don’t hear any idea coming from you, Carmilla.” You point out accusingly.

“How about instead of one of your boring games, we just sit here in silence?” She proposes.

You purse your lips, irritated, but say nothing. Even if this _totally isn’t a game_ , you still have to win. You stare each other down, and you start to feel words beginning to form on the tip of your tongue, just _waiting_ to burst out. She narrows her eyes at you with a smirk, as if she could feel you beginning to implode.

The silence is deafening.

“Okay, so we could play Walrus.” You rush out a little too loudly for a Denny’s atmosphere, really.

“Elaborate.” She states, smirking to herself.

“Basically we both say nouns that we think could beat the other person’s noun. It’s easy, here, I’ll start it off.” You pause for a moment to think of a noun. Carmilla raises an eyebrow at you, sitting back further in her seat and crossing her arms. “Okay, okay… Lion.”

“And my noun has to beat your noun in a cage fight?”

“Yeah.”

“Napoleon Bonaparte.” She states confidently.

“What? There’s no way that tiny man could defeat a lion.” You protest, shaking your head profusely.

“He totally could. Besides, he’s super charismatic; he’d probably convince his 7,000 person army to defeat the lion for him.” She refuted.

“Okay, fine.” You sigh. “British Parliament.”

“Wow, somebody here took a high school history class.” She teases.

“I just find the French Revolution fascinating.”

“I’m sure everybody does, cutie.”

“You’re avoiding the game.” You point out.

She stares at you for a moment calculatingly. “Shit.” She breathes out. She stares down at the table for a solid minute before speaking again. “Fuck, I’m stuck. An army of sharks could probably beat up those old bones.”

“You aren’t confident enough in your sharks which means that,” You pause for a triumphant grin and an enthusiastic fist pump, “I win.” You gloat.

“Lucky shot, creampuff.” She dismisses, uncrossing her arms to point at you angrily. “I demand a do-over.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, but that would mean you actually like my boring little game.” You tease, and she rolls her eyes at you.

“Oh, come on. You’re playing this card?” She waves her arms around exasperatedly.

“You bet I am.” You grin.

“Fine, fine… This game… Isn’t so bad.” She says slowly and hesitantly.

“That’s all I get? How about an ‘Oh, Laura, you’re a genius!’” You do your best to imitate her, deepening your voice much more than necessary.

“First of all, that’s a highly unrealistic piece of dialogue, cutie. Second, I don’t sound like that.” She narrows her eyes at you in faux anger, and you only grin at her.

“Okay, so, round two.” You say, trying to stay on subject. “Vacuum salesman.”

“Jehovah’s Witness.”

“The Mar-” You’re interrupted halfway through your answer by Carmilla’s phone vibrating violently on the table.

Carmilla glances at the caller ID before ignoring the call with a sigh. You don’t think much of it, until a few minutes later when the phone is buzzing again.

“Sorry.” Carmilla breathes out, ignoring the call again.

“That’s probably important; you should answer it.” You advise her.

“Nah, it’s not important.” She brushes off.

It’s not until fifteen minutes (twelve rounds of Walrus) later, her phone begins to vibrate again. She repeats her previous action and ignores the call, but now going the extra mile by silencing her phone completely.

“Who’s calling?” You ask, the nosiness of your inner journalist desperate to break through.

“Nobody.”

“Nobody?”

“Nobody.”

You eye her suspiciously, but don’t question further. You wonder how she ever landed that cameo on Full House with acting skills this subpar.

Your thought process is interrupted by the waiter approaching you, balancing a round tray of dishes above him. “Who ordered the Lumberjack Slam?”

“That was me.” Carmilla raises her hand slightly, and the waiter places Carmilla’s plate down in front of her.

“And you were the Cinnamon Pancake Breakfast?”

“Yes.”

He places the order down before you. “Anything else for you ladies? Tabasco, ketchup, mayo…” He trails off, punctuating each condiment with a hand gesture.

“No, we’re good.” Carmilla tells him.

“Enjoy your meal.” He says, turning on his heels towards the register counter.

“Wow,” Carmilla muses, glancing at your pancakes.

“What?” You ask as you cut off a piece of your pancake and stuff it in your mouth.

“Those pancakes just scream type two diabetes.” She notes with a ridiculous half-smile.

“Do you want to try some?” You offer, pushing your plate towards her.

“No, no. Wouldn’t want to be known as the twenty-six year old who had to go to the dentist for a cavity.” She tells you with a shrug.

“Come on, it’s really good.” You push on.

She rolls her eyes at you, that _stupid_ half-smile still on her lips. “One bite.” She decides finally. She digs her fork into the most syrup-slathered part of the pancake (which you were going to save to eat last, but you don’t have it in you to be angry at her), and she rips it from the rest of the pancake. She meets your eyes very briefly before sticking the entire bite into her mouth. Her face gives way to nothing, remaining stony and unreadable, the stupid smile having _finally_ left her face.

“So?” You prompt.

“Almost as sugary and heart-disease-inducing as you, cutie.” She smiles smugly (and _stupidly_ ).

You roll your eyes at her, but don’t argue about it. You do, however, notice her occasionally sneaking bites of your pancakes throughout your meal, which should really annoy you, but it really doesn’t. You really wish it did.

( _Really._ )

It wasn’t long before you were both full of empty calories and regrets.

“So, rate your experience here at Denny’s on a scale of ‘fuck you, Village Inn to _fuck you, Village Inn.’_ ” She asks you.

You bunch your mouth up to one side as if this were the most important request you’ve ever had. “I’m going to have to go with,” a pause, for obvious dramatic reasons, “Fuck you, Village Inn.”

“Hell yeah.” She nods her head pridefully.

“Should we go ahead and—” Your thought is interrupted by your phone blasting out Taylor Swift, and you scramble to get it out of your pocket. You glance briefly at the caller ID and panic.

You look from the phone to Carmilla, eyes wide and breath stuck in your throat. You quickly accept the call and hold it up to your ear. “Hey Ms. Karnstein.” You greet awkwardly.

Carmilla’s eyes widen for a split second, and she nearly leaps across the table to snatch the phone out of your hand. You stare at her in disbelief as she ends the call and shoves the phone in between the cushions of the booth, as if that could possibly keep her mother away.

“You didn’t tell her, did you?” You ask, feeling anger bubble up inside of you.

A lot of people say that anger comes from your chest and spreads from there, but you’ve never found that to be true. For you, anger starts at the very back of your head, like a slimy, twisted hand. It holds onto the back of your brain, and digs its rotten nails into it. Anger is radiating and hot, and just feeling that evil hand crawling up to grip your cerebral cortex makes your cheeks flourish with color.

“Did you?” You repeat sternly when Carmilla doesn't reply.

“I didn’t.” She says quietly staring down at the table.

The hand squeezes, and you feel the heat and tenseness spread to your shoulders.

“Jesus Christ, Carmilla.” You breathe out, folding your arms against the table and resting your head against it.

Surprisingly, the hand dissipates, sliding back to wherever it came from, and is instead replaced by dread. Dread is an anchor pulling away at shreds of your humanity, dragging you down.

“I’m sorry. My mother wouldn’t have ever let me go, and you wouldn’t have taken me if you knew she didn’t approve.” She tells you defensively.

“We have to go back home.” You say, lifting your head up to look at her. She refuses to look back at you.

“No.” She shakes her head. “We can’t just start this and not finish it.” She says.

“We have to, Carmilla. I can’t lose my job—I have student loans and debt and groceries and rent and—and I need this. I need this, Carmilla.” You’re desperate now, your bank statement popping up in your head again.

“Isn’t that the point of this road trip? To run from loans and rent and groceries and just _live._ ” She encourages you, finally looking into your eyes.

“Don’t pull this inspiration stuff on me now because you can’t just run away from all your problems. When I wake up tomorrow, I’ll have more groceries to pay for, more debt to pay off, more rent to save up for, and no matter how far away I am from that, it’s still there.”

“You have to stop worrying as much as you do. If you don’t take a break, the stress and anxiety of everyday duties will eat you alive. You need this just as much as I do.” Her fists are clenched on top of the table as if it's the only thing keeping her stable.

You worry tirelessly that you’re putting too much trust into a girl you know almost nothing about.

“Why do you need this? Why do you want so badly to leave? What are you running from?” You prod.

“Life. Just _life._ I can’t stand Los Angeles, I can’t stand photoshoots, I can’t stand paparazzi, I can’t stand my mother, and I absolutely cannot stand the fucking heat; I can’t take it anymore.” She lists, becoming increasingly angrier.

“Oh, let’s feel bad for Carmilla because she’s rich and famous and _rich and famous._ Her life must be _so_ hard.”

“Wow, I’m so sorry I’m not a broke college graduate stuck in a dead end job who’s too scared to get out there because she’s too scared of failure. I’m sorry my problems aren’t important enough for you. I didn’t realize I needed your validation to be upset.”

You tense your jaw, but don’t reply. The reality of the situation seems to sink in as you and Carmilla stare each other down, breathing heavily as if it’s the only way to convey to each other just how infuriated you both are.

“Ladies?” The waiter interrupts you both tentatively. “I’m sorry, but your card was declined ma’am.” He turns to Carmilla, handing her the receipt sleeve.

“Seriously?” Carmilla asks in disbelief, opening up the sleeve and taking out her card.

“I’m sorry. Do you have another card we could run through?”

“No, man, this is kind of my only one.”

“Don’t you celebrities have, like, twenty credit cards?” You scoff out.

The only acknowledgment she gives you is an eye roll. “Do you guys have an ATM around here?”

“There’s one at the Howdy’s across the street. One of you would have to stay here, of course. Can’t have any dine n’ dashes, you know.” He laughs nervously.

“Right, right.” Carmilla breathes out, slipping her debit card into her wallet.

Carmilla slips out of the booth, and the waiter takes it as a cue and leaves.

“I’ll be back.” She breathes out before walking out of Denny’s.

You sigh deeply and sink into the booth. You feel completely overcome with guilt. You were unnecessarily rude to Carmilla, and you feel _horrible._

But she should feel horrible too.

You shake your head; neither of you should feel horrible. Both of you are at fault, and the two things should completely cancel each other out.

But they don’t.

They don’t, and you can’t find it in yourself to pretend it didn’t happen or to pretend that it wasn’t that bad because you were so _irrationally rude._ She was too, but she was provoked by _you_.

(It’s all your fault, it’s all your fault, it’s all your fault)

She comes back with slouched shoulders and a defeated look. “It’s frozen.”

“What?”

“My savings account is frozen. My mother must have frozen it.” She tells you, sliding into the booth and resting her head in her hands.

“She can do that?”

“I don’t even know, but she did. That’s really my only source of cash. I can’t pay you to drive me around now. We can go back to Los Angeles.” Her sentences are short and tense.

(It’s all your fault, it’s all your fault, it’s all your fault)

You shake your head, “We can’t go back now. We’re already in Phoenix.” You tell her.

“I can’t pay you.”

“There’ll always be other jobs, I guess; I can find one after this. Besides, I think you were right. I need this just as much as you do.” You shrug indifferently as she lifts her head out of her hands to look at you.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I know.”

There’s a heavy silence hanging around the two of you, neither of you breaking the eye contact you’ve established.

“I’m sorry.” She breathes out, resting her cheek on one of her hands.

“I’m sorry too.” You tell her, giving her a tense half-smile.

“Our first fight. We should celebrate with ice cream.” She decides, and your smile widens.

“With what money?” You scoff playfully, your hands tugging at your jacket sleeves in a way that says that you’re much more anxious about this than you’re trying to portray.

“I have some cash.” She shrugs, “Maybe five hundred or so stashed in one of my suitcases. It’s not enough to get us a hotel room every night, but we can use it for food and gas. We just need to be really careful about our expenses.”

“I have forty dollars and some Tic Tacs.” You offer, riffling through your purse.

She smiles at you, and you can feel your heart practically _melt._

“I think that can be our last resort fund. Except those Tic Tacs. Those will be utilized often and heavily.” She says, holding out a hand.

You pop a Tic Tac into her hand with a grin because, _wow,_ if only the media knew how much of a total dork Carmilla Karnstein truly is.

“Are you tired?” She asks you, slipping the Tic Tac into her mouth.

“Not yet.”

“Let’s go ahead and drive to Tucson. It’s maybe two hours out, and we can find a nice parking lot to sleep in.” She suggests, taking out a twenty dollar bill.

“Sounds good.” You slide out of the booth, and she mirrors the position.

“Oh, hold on.” She tells you, leaning down to shove her hand between two couch cushions to retrieve your phone. “I believe this is yours.”

You take the phone from her hand gingerly, as if the older Karnstein could send electrical currents through it and kill you. “Thanks.” You breathes out, slipping it into your purse.

Carmilla slaps her twenty dollar bill down onto the table, and the two of you swiftly exit the Denny’s.

///

Although Target parking lots at midnight are not as beautiful or as glamorous as a Los Angeles sunrise, they are a lot more freeing.

Mostly in the fact that Los-Angeles-Sunrise-People are middle aged parents with a nine-to-five job and a dead marriage, whilst Midnight-Target-People usually have no priorities or sense of self-worth.

You shouldn’t feel happy that you’re among the Midnight-Target-People.

“Hey Carmilla?” You whisper softly.

Carmilla’s been passed out next to you since you left Phoenix. She’s not the most graceful sleeper; she tosses around a lot and snores softly, but that’s oddly endearing to you.

“Carmilla?” You nudge her softly.

“Yeah?” She croaks out, turning in her reclined seat to face you. Her eyes are plagued with sleep, and her mouth is slightly agape. You’re almost angry at how beautiful she is, even when awoken mid-dream.

“Don’t do that again to me, okay?” You whisper to her.

Her brows furrow slightly. “Do what?”

“Don’t lie to me like you did today.” Your voice isn’t stern or angry, but it conveys a certain type of sorrowful seriousness.

She nods, “Okay.”

“Good night, Carmilla.”

“Good night, Laura.” She turns back over in her makeshift bed, sleeping soundly once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Excessive cringing at own writing] I swear it'll get better (maybe).


End file.
